Andrea Kane (37 page)

“Fine,” George conceded, taking a symbolic step backward. “I’ll do as you ask—even if it is my right as your father to discipline you as I see fit.”

“Not any longer, it isn’t,” Breanna retorted. “I’m a grown woman, not a child. I’ve endured all the
discipline
I intend to from you.”

He forced himself to nod.

Satisfied, Breanna lowered the pistol, pivoting about to replace it in her nightstand drawer. “Coming, Wells,” she called. Walking boldly past her father, she crossed over and opened the door. “I’m fine, thank you,” she assured the anxious butler. “Just clumsy. Father and I were chatting and I dropped my cup. I didn’t mean to worry you.” She made a wide sweep with her arm, throwing open the door so Wells could see everything—and everyone—in the bedchamber.

Wells’s gaze shifted from Breanna to George to the broken fragments of china on the floor, then returned to Breanna’s face—and the clear imprint of her father’s fingers on her cheeks. “As long as
you
aren’t hurt. I’ll summon a maid to clean up the mess.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Breanna smiled. “And then I’d like to resume my nap.” She inclined her head quizzically in George’s direction. “Unless, of course, there’s something else you need to speak with me about, Father.”

George cleared his throat. “No. As a matter of fact, I have some business to arrange.” He left the room, pausing when he’d reached Wells’s side. “I’ll be gone a good portion of the day tomorrow,” he said quietly, for the butler’s ears alone. “Keep an eye out for the mail carriage. When it arrives, collect all correspondence, but distribute nothing. From this moment on, I want everything addressed to this manor to be held for my inspection. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, my lord.”

With a brooding glance at Breanna, George stalked off, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Wells watched him go, then turned to meet Breanna’s gaze.

A current of communication ran between them.

“I’ll send up a pitcher of cold water and a cloth,” the butler said in a tight voice. “It will take away the sting.”

Breanna walked over, squeezed his arm. “Thank you. And don’t look so worried. This won’t happen again.”

Over his spectacles, Wells’s brows rose fractionally. “With all due respect, Miss Breanna, how do you know that?”

A twinkle. Because I just threatened Father at gunpoint. I told him that if he ever struck me again, I’d shoot him and make sure it resulted in the scandal of the decade.”

Wells started, studying Breanna as if to ensure she was telling the truth. At her emphatic nod, his lips began to twitch. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“So am I. It was a long time in coming.” She leaned up, kissed the butler’s weathered cheek. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your rushing to my rescue.”

“My pleasure.” He cleared his throat, waited until his emotions were in check. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll arrange for the water and the clean-up. I’d do both myself, but I have a letter to dash off.”

“A letter?”

“Indeed.” The tiniest spark glinted in his eyes. “I want to advise Lord Sheldrake that tomorrow afternoon would be a splendid time for a visit—from him, and any other surprise guests he’d care to bring along.”

A
WAKENING IN A MAN’S
arms was a novel experience.

But given those arms belonged to Damen—the experience was sheer heaven.

Anastasia smiled, snuggling farther beneath the bedcovers, reliving the exquisite hours that had flanked the arrival of that disturbing missive from Paris. First, there had been the dreamlike hour before Proust interrupted, the once-in-a-lifetime moment when Damen had made her his. And then, much later, after the return message to Dornier had been sent, after their immediate plans had been discussed and a late dinner consumed, they’d gone back to bed, spending hour after glorious hour discovering the magic their bodies made together.

Three
A.M.
had come and gone by the time they fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, their future a beckoning wonder they had only to reach.

After the obstacles blocking their way were eliminated.

That reality jogged Anastasia awake, and she shifted, wincing a bit in response. Her body ached in places she’d never known existed before last night, and it was strangely comforting to have those lingering twinges to remind her of the beauty she and Damen had shared, especially in light of the trying events that lay ahead.

Stretching, she opened her eyes, noting the weak sunlight that filtered through the windows. It couldn’t be much past dawn, she mused in relief. And that suited her just fine. She and Damen had a lot to accomplish today which, much as she wished otherwise, meant they couldn’t loll away the day in bed.

“Good morning.” Damen’s husky voice came from just above her ear, and she twisted around to see him propped on one elbow, gazing down at her. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, his hair mussed, a shadow of a beard covering his face.

It was nice to know that the unrufflable Lord Sheldrake could sometimes be ruffled after all.

Nicer still to know it was only she who could manage that feat.

“Good morning,” she replied with a radiant smile.

A corner of Damen’s mouth lifted. “Don’t we look self-satisfied this morning.” He lowered his head, brushed her lips with his. “Any reason in particular?”

“M-m-m.” Anastasia sighed, twined her arms around his neck. “Several. Most of which are self-explanatory.” She caressed his hair-roughened jaw. “But at the moment I was thinking how smug it makes me feel to know that I, and I alone, can demolish the composure of the ever-commanding Damen Lockewood.”

“Indeed you can.” He rolled onto his back, pulled her over him, and dragged her mouth down to his. “Again and again, if I remember correctly,” he breathed into her lips.

Anastasia shivered, giving in to the demands of her watery muscles, which clamored to relax, melt into Damen’s solid strength.

Damen made a husky sound of approval, tangling his hands in her hair and slanting her mouth to accept the full penetration of his.

Their tongues met, stroked, melded, and Anastasia’s breath came faster as their kisses deepened, turned more urgent. Her nipples hardened against his chest, tingling as the hair-roughened surface rasped against them. Damen’s thighs slid between hers, nudged hers wide apart, and she whimpered aloud as his rigid shaft probed the entrance to her body.

“Is it too soon?” he managed, his voice rough with passion. “Can you take me again?”

Anastasia tried to answer, but the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she let her body speak for her, her knees straddling his hips, her thighs lowering her slowly, maddeningly onto him. He glided into her, a rumbling groan vibrating in his chest, and his mouth devoured hers as he eased into her tight, clinging passage. She sank down farther, begging him wordlessly for more, and Damen’s hands slid down her back to her bottom. He gripped her buttocks, hard, and pushed up and into her trembling wetness, burying himself to the hilt inside her.

Talons of pleasure shot through her, and Anastasia tore her mouth from Damen’s, arching her back and taking him deeper still. She began the instinctive motion—up, down, up, down—the resulting sensations too acute to withstand. She felt wild, frantic, her entire body burning with a fever she’d only just discovered and couldn’t imagine living without.

Clutching her waist, quickening the motion of his hips, Damen raised up, capturing her nipple between his lips. He drew the entire peak into his mouth, lashing at it with his tongue until a harsh sob escaped Anastasia’s lips. Still, he didn’t relent, shifting to the other breast, lavishing that nipple with the same attention as the first.

“Damen.” She cried out his name, so desperate for release that she hardly knew what she was saying. Her thighs gave out, the muscles too weak to keep setting the pace. She was close, so close, hovering right at the brink of where she needed to be, and yet unable to get there. Each tug of Damen’s lips sent fire shooting from her breasts to her loins, each lunge of his hips brought her one degree closer to fulfillment. And yet … God, she couldn’t reach it.

Her entire body tightened, reaching, shuddering with unappeased hunger. “Damen,” she gasped again, his name an unspoken plea.

Damen understood it.

Abandoning her breasts, he dropped back down to the bed, his own body screaming its need for release. Staring into Anastasia’s passion-flushed face, he raised his knees, pushed her backward until she was anchored by them. “Let me,” he commanded. He grasped her waist with one hand, continuing the frenzied rise and fall of his hips as he thrust even higher, farther, into her, nudging the very mouth of her womb. “Stacie, look at me,” he rasped. “I want to watch you. I want you to watch me.”

She complied instantly, meeting his blazing silver gaze, his handsome features taut with unsated passion. Just seeing how close he was made her own need even sharper, and she whimpered again, quivering as she kept her eyes on his.

His other hand moved to the spot where they were joined, his fingers unerringly parting her, finding the straining bud. His thumb caressed it, scraped over it, then circled it with erotic precision. Her insides clenched violently and, the instant he felt her response, Damen lunged upward, lifting her off the bed with his total possession, his fingers burning into her as he filled her, stretched her, penetrated her, beyond bearing.

Her climax slammed through her like cannon fire, and she screamed, grabbing Damen’s shoulders and watching his face as his own release took over, stormed through him. He threw back his head, the tendons in his neck straining, and he shouted her name, thrusting into her once, twice, then holding her there as he pumped his hot seed into her, meeting each of her wrenching contractions with a scalding burst of heat. She watched him until the pleasure became too acute, until she had to arch, fling back her head, then toss it from side to side as the spasms intensified, clasped rhythmically around Damen’s turgid length as he poured himself into her.

She fell forward, collapsed against the wall of his chest, felt it heaving with the exertion of their lovemaking. She was shaking uncontrollably, her heart racing, her emotions as raw as her body.

Damen’s arms closed around her, enfolded her tightly against him, and he pressed his lips into her hair, willing his senses to right themselves. “God,” he panted, barely able to speak. “My God.”

Anastasia closed her eyes, lay her cheek against his hot skin. “I love you,” she whispered. “More than I ever thought possible.”

“And I love you; although those words—any words— seem inadequate after what we just shared.”

A lingering shiver rippled through her, along with all the romantic yearnings of a woman in love. “I wish …” Her voice trailed off.

Damen hooked a forefinger beneath her chin, angling it until her gaze met his. “So do I. And we will.” He brushed damp strands of hair off her face. “We’ll have it all, Stacie—a lifetime like this. Beginning with a church wedding, and all the guests you want to fill it. Once we’ve taken our vows and the entire world has witnessed you becoming my wife, we’ll have a wedding breakfast fit for a king and his queen—most of which we’ll miss because I’ll be sneaking you off to a local inn, making love to you until you can’t breathe and don’t even want to. We’ll leave for our wedding trip the next day, very little of which you’ll remember because I’ll be keeping you abed throughout it. And when we come home …” His fingertips caressed her lips. “When we come home, you’ll be pregnant with my child, and I’ll spend the next nine months doting on you and watching you grow more beautiful and radiant with each passing day. How does that sound so far?”

Tears glistened on Anastasia’s lashes. “So far? Have you planned more than that?”

“Of course.” A profound smile touched his lips. “I’d like four, maybe five, children.”

“Five—is that all?” She smiled through her tears. “Girls? Or boys?”

“Both. The girls will look just like you; beautiful miniatures of their mother, with burnished hair that won’t stay up and jade green eyes that flash when they’re angry and glow when they’ve conjured up a brilliant idea.”

Anastasia kissed his fingertips. “And the boys will be impossibly handsome and independent, and so astute in business that it will be obvious from the day they’re born that they’re destined to be brilliant.” A peppery spark. “Then again, the brilliant part applies to the girls, too. After all, they’ll be
our
children. Besides, we have more than enough companies for them to manage: the House of Lockewood, Fidelity Union and Trust—soon to be open and thriving—and, of course, Colby and Sons …” Anastasia halted, the very mention of her grandfather’s company acting as a blatant reminder of the ugly dilemma they now faced.

She stared at Damen, apprehension eclipsing all traces of humor.

“We’ll make things right, Stacie,” he said softly. “I promised you that, and I meant it.”

“We have to. Because none of the beautiful dreams you just described can happen until we put Uncle George and all his colleagues in prison.” Fear knotted her gut. “By now, I’m sure he’s interrogated Breanna to see if she knows anything more about my disappearance. I hope to God she’s all right, that he didn’t try to beat information out of her.”

Damen gave an astute shake of his head. “Have faith in your cousin, sweetheart. I think she’ll surprise you. She’s stronger than you realize.”

“I know.” Despite the certainty of her words, Anastasia frowned, her brows knit in worry. “Breanna is very strong. But Uncle George is irrational. Lord knows how desperate he’ll become when he discovers I’m gone, and to what lengths he’ll go to find me.”

Equally troubled as she by the prospects that conjured up, Damen rolled to one side, taking Anastasia with him. “Let’s get our strategy under way. You’ll feel better and, frankly, so will I.” He kissed her ever so softly, held her for one more tantalizing minute before reluctantly withdrawing from her clinging warmth. “Remember where we left off,” he murmured.

A watery smile. “Just try to make me forget.”